Hound Of The Red Plains
by Alejudis
Summary: Forged. Broken. Remade. The life of Emiya Shirou could be compared to a sword. A sword was his soul, his existence, fragile, and to this day, he would never forget. His body was made out of blades.


"I give you my word. Even if it costs me my life, I will save everyone."

_Trace on._

* * *

_Judging the concept of creation._

_Hypothesizing the basic structure._

_Duplicating the composition material._

_Imitating the skill of its making._

_Sympathizing with the experience of its growth._

_Reproducing the accumulated years._

_Excelling every manufacturing process._

* * *

He was forged in flames.

In that charred land, amongst the screams of the innocent begging for salvation, a dead man's smile spared him from the fires of corruption.

He wanted to feel the same happiness he felt that day.

A hero of justice, those borrowed ideals, dreams that weren't his. Despite the hypocrisy and flawed path it would take him, he vowed to never look back, and hold no regrets, no matter what he did or where he went. An unselfish path which he was aware held no reward.

What kind of hero would he be if he betrayed what he stood for?

He had learned from example, of course. A twisted version of himself had appeared numerous times and warned him of his decision, seeking to erase his existence from reality so as to protect him from the horrors of being what can be called a 'hero'.

Nevertheless, he disregarded his reasoning's, even if he would gain nothing in the end, and as his mind hardened and the woman he had loved and lost filled his glass heart with purpose on that hill, his determination burned brighter as that tragic night ended and a new dawn began. And when he finally died, on a hill surrounded by his comrades, those numerous battlefields and wars which he himself had ceased, felt insignificant to the idea of saving the lives of those who were unaware of his sacrifice.

Those select few who knew, however, merely wept.

For his life had no meaning, as Emiya Shirou's body was a sword for others to hold.

* * *

Arching his great black bow, the weapon he had specifically chosen was pulled from the vast confines of his soul and was delivered into his hand. Having long mastered the skills he had inherited from the red knight, it was not _his_ technique, but his own, honed from experience, that modified the sword's existence to suit his needs. Before being fully materialised into the world its form and characteristics were altered in order to take the form not of any type of sword, but of a black arrow. A deep black missile that was notched comfortably in the bowstring and waiting to be released.

This was the famed ability of the red knight. Though he had the skills that could qualify him as a knight of the sword, the skill to be able to copy and project weapons of untold legends and fire them as projectiles was what made him even more suitable as a knight of the bow.

As despite not being capable of extraordinary feats such as the Greek hero Heracles, where his strengths lay was in his ability to keep a clear and sharp mind and adapt to any situation.

"Hrunting."

A crimson bullet shot from the archer's position and quickly reached a speed that was unheard of for any bow and arrow combination. Soaring at Mach 10, the arrow had a unique ability to find the most direct path to its target, and like an experienced hunter searching for its prey, will continue to pursue the target even if the arrow was parried, dodged or avoided.

The red streak of light, the Noble Phantasm 'Hrunting', was the sword the legendary hero Beowulf wielded when he slew the mother of Grendel in the age-old poem named after the famed hero. As a sword, it was a pitch-black weapon with a few small deadly edges protruding around the core, spiralling around the weapon and curling outwards as if to puncture and shred the internal structure of whoever was skewered by its blade.

An explosion erupted three kilometres away.

And there was celebration.

They had finally found a decisive mean to eliminate the creatures that had decimated their land.

And to the last remnants of humanity, this was a major victory. It gave hope to those who saw their lives as merely a delay for their inevitable death. They no longer had to live in fear while waiting for the day when their defences proved useless against their foes.

But for the archer in red, he still wasn't satisfied.

As he knew from experience, having encountered it many times in his life; that while one victory was essential for keeping morale, as long as there was conflict, many more lives would still be lost.

He wanted to end that, more than anything. That was his wish. The true battle would be long and arduous, and with the anomaly of the Titans, there was still the question of how they appeared in the world. But if they can be killed, then that didn't matter. There was no point for redemption, the fact that these beings ate humans simply out of pleasure rather than as sustenance, sickened him to his core, and as long as they can be put down for good, then he would give his all to uphold his ideals.

For he had been summoned into this time to quell any threats to the existence of humanity, and as a hero of justice, so long as there were still people that cried out for mercy, he would fight in order to see the grateful smiles on their faces, and to relive the same happiness his father felt when he saved him from the flames of all the world's evils.


End file.
